


Looking Out for Themselves

by Jenosavel



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-15
Updated: 2013-02-15
Packaged: 2017-11-29 08:48:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/685075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenosavel/pseuds/Jenosavel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A chance encounter between the wandering Warden and the Champion of Kirkwall, and what might then have happened when Hawke turns over Fenris to Danerius.</p>
<p>This fic is going to have self-contained stories in each chapter, so after any particular chapter I add this thing can be considered over... until I decide to add a new story to the collection.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

After their precious guild master had been killed, the Antivan Crows had been getting particularly desperate. You would expect assassins to stay mostly out of sight, but lately they’d been even more difficult to track than usual. Still, after weeks of hunting this small band of crows, the Warden’s targets were finally in her sights. It had taken Zevran parading himself around alone and supposedly helpless to draw them out, and even then they still showed up with outside help.

“Pathetic,” the Warden grumbled, but as the hired help walked out of the shadows of the cave mouth and into the light of the sandy clearing, she felt an excitement rise in her chest. There was no mistaking that disheveled black hair and red tattoo. Nuncio had hired the Champion of Kirkwall.

For better or worse, things were about to get interesting.

Too far to hear what was being said, and finding no hint as to the real danger in Zevran’s eternally relaxed body language, the Warden was forced to wait. She drew her bow and trained her sights on the Champion, but when a dagger finally left Zevran’s fingertips and the beach burst into chaos, it was to Zevran’s defense that the Champion lept.

The warden smiled to herself and relaxed the tension on her bow. It looked like even the great Champion of Kirkwall was not immune to Zevran’s charms. Returning her bow to her back and loosening her daggers, she began descending towards the battle.

Nuncio was no match for the Champion and his companions, and by the time the Warden reached their position, the fight was over. As she approached she was just in time to hear Zevran chuckle something about “the more the merrier” and break away from the group with the Champion and a strangely familiar pirate in tow.

Knowing Zevran, there was no need to ask what was going on.

“Are we sure he was part of a guild of assassins?”

For the first time the Warden took in the Champion’s companions. One was a madly grinning little dwarf, but the question had come from the other. White hair was so rare among her kind, and she had been so focused on the Champion himself that she had pegged this one for a human from a distance. His height probably didn’t help either. He was awfully tall for an elf.

“An assassin born in an Antivan whorehouse,” she answered, earning a raised eyebrow from the white-haired elf. “Antiva is a strange place, and I’m in no hurry to return there. But since it looks like we’ll be spending the night here anyway, we might as well make camp.”

"It seems the Warden wasn't so far as Nuncio thought," the dwarf mused. He seemed entirely too happy to see her for someone she did not know. “Aaaaah, camping with the Hero of Ferelden. This should be fun."

Fun? The Warden wasn’t sure she liked the dwarf’s eagerness.

"They say you slaughtered your whole alienage and then escaped justice by joining the Wardens," the dwarf casually proposed, and the Warden certainly didn't like that. His expression said he didn't believe it, but being baited didn’t make her any happier.

"You shouldn't put much stock in rumors." The Warden set her pack in the sand and stalked to what little underbrush there was to look for materials for a fire. The dwarf, of course, followed right behind and tried to help. It was a nice gesture, but any goodwill it could have garnered him was foiled as soon as he opened his mouth again.

"Come on, who doesn't love a good rumor?" The Warden didn't, for one, but the dwarf was clearly of a different persuasion. "Tales are the currency of legend," he continued, "and I hate to tell you, but legend hangs over you Wardens like the storm cloud over old grumpy here." He nodded back towards where the tall elf was crouching in the sand and scowling off into nothing.

It was unfortunately very true, and one of her reasons for leaving Ferelden had been to escape her reputation. Hero worship was bad enough, but it was even worse when shems refused to believe that a scrawny little knife ears could be one of the legendary Ferelden Wardens. She had gotten more than enough of both for a lifetime, and crossing the sea had given her a much more comfortable level of infamy: virtually none at all. Many on this side of the water didn't even believe there had even been a blight. They certainly didn’t care who had ended it.

"I tell you what," the dwarf went on when the Warden resolutely remained silent, "you tell me what really happened and I won't have to keep repeating some tired old rumor."

The Warden felt her old grimace fix itself on her face. That was something else she had escaped from when she left Ferelden. Alistair had always told her that her face might break if she grimaced any harder, but travelling with Zevran had almost undone that old habit. Her old companions wouldn't even have recognized her out here, until now. Apparently old habits weren't quite that easy to kill afterall.

"Wow," the dwarf rattled his armful of dry brush as a chuckle took him. "You sure you're not really from Tevinter? I hear you win medals over there with a face like that."

The warden dumped her own armful of wood in an unceremonious heap, using the sound to drown out a heartfelt sigh. "You're not going give up are you?"

"I won't lie," the dwarf replied. "I chase after stories like some chase after coin."

"So I can see," the Warden muttered. She crouched beside her pack and began digging for flint and steel. "If you really must know, my alienage was slaughtered. But not by me."

"Oh ho! So there is more to this one afterall." The dwarf was all grin, but the Warden tried not to notice as she set about building the fire.

"I butchered my way out of an arl's dungeon, straight through his bastard of a son," she spat. "The arl butchered the whole alienage in response. 'Cleansing' they called it. A few of my friends and family survived, but most weren't so lucky."

"That's all?" The dwarf’s smile was disarming, but it had a sly edge to it that made the Warden wary. "Most people wouldn't consider a jail break a noble cause, but you seem to think yours was. So the question I have to ask is, what put you in that dungeon in the first place?"

The Warden could feel old anger rising to her cheeks, and to hide it she leaned in closer to the tiny embers she was feeding. She blew onto them carefully, letting her anger flow out with each breath and imagining it consumed by the growing flames. When she sat back again she felt in control once more.

"Denerim needed little reason to toss elves in dungeons. It was a crime even to be armed, and when they started torturing my friends for no reason, I wasn't about to sit idly by."

"So you rescued some innocent elves from torture by the son of an arl, but instead of a hero's welcome you were forced to join the Wardens to save your own life," the dwarf concluded, taking a seat before the now roaring fire. When the Warden nodded, the dwarf chuckled. "Now see? That's a much more interesting story than the one I could have been telling people."

Unfortunately for the Warden, that wasn’t the end of it. The dwarf had a full stock of Hero of Ferelden stories to share, and he wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity to have them fleshed out by the Hero herself. There were tales of werewolves and dragons and raging cannibals, and the only thing that seemed to make the dwarf happier than the Warden’s corrections were the few times that she admitted he had gotten the tale right.

She really wanted to know how he had found out about Avernus’s blood potion, but by that time a silence had finally started to stretch and the Warden wasn’t about to be the one to break it again. She had endured the dwarf so long that now the fire was burning low and shadows were creeping back in to reclaim the camp. 

The dwarf took it as a sign and stood up to stretch.

"I think I'm going to go get some shut-eye," he said. "I'll leave you two to this championship quality brooding; I'm sure you both are just itching to try it head-to-head for once.” When he was ignored, he simply smiled to himself and retired to one of the two tents the Warden had set up. It was all she and Zevran had brought with them; they hadn't exactly been expecting guests.

After the last embers of the fire grew gray and the faint starlight cast the camp in deep blues to the Warden's elven eyes, she realized that in the fever of the dwarf's storytelling they had skipped right past introductions. She had no idea who the quiet elf sitting next to her even was, though he knew half of her life story by now.

“Those are unusual tattoos,” she remarked. They stood out all the more in this moonless night and it was as good a point of conversation as any.

“They’re lyrium. Burned into my flesh by my former master.” There was no malice in that voice, but the elf's face tightened in an expression that the Warden understood all too well. This was the first time she had seen the look on anyone else though.

“Does he still live, this former master of yours?”

The elf's eyes slid up up from the cooling ashes, a slight hint of amusement in his voice, “I don't think anyone has asked that so bluntly before. Most people seem caught off guard by the mere prospect of slavery."

The Warden shrugged, "If you've lived in an alienage long enough, you find few things will surprise you anymore."

"I could say the same of Tevinter."

Something his eyes brought the Warden to memories of Duncan. The two people couldn't be more different, and yet, they both had quiet eyes that spoke of a strength forged from tragedies survived.

She had never shared the full story of how she came to be a Gray Warden with anyone. Duncan had known, of course, but only because he had been there. She had never spoken of it, not even to Alistair or Zevran. Yet somehow she felt compelled to speak of it now. His eyes said that she couldn't surprise him, no matter how horrible her tale, and she found that comforting.

"The part of my story they will never tell is of the real reason I found myself in that arl's dungeon," she began.

The elf inclined his head, "There are many stories of Tevinter which they shall never tell either." 

And of Rivain, the Warden silently added. She really did still miss her old mentor, no matter how briefly she had known him.

"I was to be wed that day," she went on. "It was an arranged marriage but a better one than most alienage elves could hope for. I was scared, but happy in a way.

"Until the arl's son showed up, anyway. He thought he might have a bit of fun with the women at the ceremony, as though we were play things on display for his pleasure." Her heart raced in her chest as the memory came to life again, but neither her hands nor her voice shook. "When we resisted, he returned with guards to finish what he'd started. I was dragged from my own wedding in chains for the crime of catching a Lordling's eye."

The elf did not speak when the Warden paused. He didn't try to force meaningless words into the silence. Neither had Duncan. Not many understood the healing quality of darkness and silence, but the Warden relished those now before continuing her tale.

"I had to watch one unarmed friend get killed for trying to protect us; listen to the cries of my cousin as she was abused. But before my turn came I got my hands on a dagger. I'm sure you can fill in the rest.

"Of course, there is no such thing as killing in self defense when you’re an elf, and so for the murder of an Arl's son I would have paid with my life. Lucky for me, the Gray Wardens came along with their Right of Conscription.

"I traded away my life to the Gray Wardens in order to save it, but either way, the life I knew ended that day."

The Warden shook her head. How many years now had it been that she had never fitted words to those events? Now that they were out she did not regret them; she was not one who often flirted with regret. That would probably change if the talkative dwarf wasn't quite as asleep as he sounded, but he sounded very asleep and her voice was low even to elven ears.

"Wardens join for life," the elf noted; he seemed to be familiar with them. “I’ve never heard of one simply leaving, yet you don’t seem to be here on Warden duty.”

"There is no escape from duty except through death," the Warden said bitterly. "We feel the darkspawn wherever we go, and each is drawn to kill the other. Death and duty are always at our side. And madness. If you're lucky you succumb to the former before the latter."

Then, to avoid thinking about her own approaching Calling, she changed the subject.

"I don’t normally just tell my life story, you know,” she pointed out. “What I meant to get at by telling you all that is that the life of a free elf is worth little more than the life of a slave, but despite that I did get vengeance with my own hand. So now I wonder about you: does the one you called master still breathe?"

"Yes, he’s still alive." The elf considered her with liquid eyes. Even after the story there was no judgement in them, no pity. But then his gaze turned inward, and he found the sharpness he had reserved for himself.

"My own escape was not so bold or decisive," he bit the words off. "I passed up my first chance at freedom. At my master's command I murdered those who had sheltered me.

“The guilt of their deaths is a scar that may never heal, but it is what finally brought me to my senses. After the battle my master was injured and I used that chance to flee, but he does still live. Its only a matter of time before he comes for me again.

"Although,” the elf paused to consider the Warden. “I suppose as assassin would offer me the means to change that."

"Suppose I would," the Warden returned. "Would you be interested?" She would certainly enjoy killing slavers far more than arbitrary assassins. As much as she enjoyed sharing the open roads with Zevran, she had never really taken to his work. She could not deny that she was a killer, that her only real skills were in her bow and her blades, but she had no interest in the money or intrigue that seemed to fill the lives of assassins. Her motivations were far more personal.

"A tempting offer, to be sure." But even as he said it, the elf was shaking his head. "Unfortunately, Danerius sits safely behind the walls of Minrathos. That, I would wager, is beyond even the reach of famous hero-assassins." The last he said with a smirk. So he’d found the dwarf’s tales amusing, had he?

"I find that a well made trap, especially with the right bait, works wonders." The Warden pushed past the minor jab and onto something more comfortable: work. Mages tended to be easy to bait, they tended to have a much clearer goal to grab onto and a more ardent pursuit of whatever that goal happened to be. In this case, there was certainly one thing they knew the blood mage would want.

This elf, with his hair was as bright and fine as Halla fur, was as lean and dangerous as a hunting cat. He was easy on the eyes, but he was not some simple house-servant. He was an investment, and one that Warden was willing to bet would be worth getting lured into a trap after.

"I think we have the right bait," she said, never trying to hide her appraisal. She grinned, only somewhat guiltily, when a blush rose in the elf’s cheeks and he averted his eyes.

"I... don't think that would be wise." The elf studiously watched the cooling ashes in the fire pit. "If I draw out Danerius purposefully, he'll come prepared. He may even bring a retinue of slaves to sacrifice as insurance. I'd much rather wait for him to come for his own purposes and then surprise him when he gets here."

The Warden inclined her head. "It is, of course, your decision to make," she said. It was understandable. All of the mages she knew with enough power to resist the compulsion of blood magic were on the other side of the sea, and she had no artifacts for resisting as she once might have. A direct confrontation would be a very risky prospect, and knowing the mage in question personally would make it even more unpleasant.

"With Hawke I'm as safe as I could hope to be. If we catch Danerius unawares, he will be master no more." There was a certainty in the elf's voice that the Warden envied. She had trusted others once; even loved a human. But that human had found power, had found a crown. And no matter his promises before, once that crown had been settled on his head there had been no room for her in his court. Honors and accolades he had tried to heap on her, even as he banished her from sight.

In the end all of her friends had abandoned her except Zevran. Oh they all had their reasons, even good ones. But in the end, the result was the same. It was always the same. Elves were left to fend for themselves.

"I hope for your sake that you have better luck with humans than I have," the Warden said. She didn't exactly distrust humans; rather she distrusted power. That one always seemed to go with the other was an unfortunate coincidence, and one that seemed to fit this Champion of Kirkwall all too well. He was already drawing power to himself, and the Warden doubted he would stop any time soon. Before he was done he would have the whole city eating from his palm, if it didn't eat itself first.

"Hawke saved my life, and I his," was the simple reply. It was a good reply, and not one the Warden could argue. That sort of bond was not something undone by the words of a stranger.

"I don't believe I've caught your name," she said at last. "I am Tabris to those who know more than my reputation."

"I am called Fenris," the elf replied. "It is not my true name. The memories of that were stolen from me when this lyrium was burned into my flesh. But it is the only name I know."

"Wear it proudly," the Warden said. Fenris started and his eyes grew narrower.

“I can’t say I’ve heard that before,” he admitted, a troubled look on his face.

"I meant it sincerely,” the Warden assured him. She was rough around the edges when it came to words, and this was neither the first nor the last time that would become apparent to her. “I only meant... It’s a powerful name, meant to intimidate. I doubt the one who gave it to you ever intended to fear it himself, so fix that little problem and wear it proudly."

Fenris tasted the words for a while before deciding he liked them. "Thank you," he said in a low voice. Then louder he added, "I think I shall."

Deciding it was best to end on a high note before her tongue caused her real trouble, the Warden said, "You had best get some rest before the sun rises."

Fenris looked at the tent and then back at the Warden, somewhat uncomfortably. For the first time that night she smiled.

"Take the tent," she offered. "The Warden's curse is strong in my blood tonight and I don't think I will get much sleep either way. On nights like these I prefer the open air anyways."

 

When dawn broke the elves parted ways. Before turning her feet north towards Antiva, the Warden watched the Champion's group head down the road towards Kirkwall. It was an odd thing, but she thought she might miss that elf's sharp eyes and simple silences.


	2. Chapter 2

"If you want him, he's yours.”

"I thought I was the only one thinking that."

The words echoed in Fenris' head as Danerius' procession wound its way westward on a tiny road through the Planasene forest. As tensions had heated between the mages and the templars, so too had their own relationship become strained. But they had saved each other’s lives, and no matter what the abomination might have thought of him, Fenris had still trusted Hawke.

Yet when Danerius showed up on their doorstep, Hawke had handed him over without hesitation while that abomination watched smugly. Fenris had been too stunned to resist, not that resisting would have gotten him very far. He couldn’t fight both Danerius and Hawke at the same time.

Fighting Danerius alone was much more possible, although the mage kept a careful guard up at all times. Fenris had almost immediately been shackled with a pair of silvery bracelets that suppressed his lyrium abilities, and despite their fragile appearance Fenris had not been able to break them. They undoubtedly were of a magical nature.

As if that were not enough, Danerius had also set up a rotating watch of his apprentices to keep an eye on Fenris. Although they were weak compared to Danerius himself, no mage became apprentice to a magister without an aptitude for blood magic and a willingness to use it.

Danerius clearly did not trust his pet anymore, and would likely not trust him again until they reached Tevinter and his memories were stolen once more. That was the fate Fenris had to look forward to if he did not find an opening before they reached their destination.

But then, as if summoned by his thoughts, two arrows sprouted from Danerius' chest. The mage stumbled backwards a step before regaining his composure. Guards drew their weapons and began shouting to one another, forming up and readying for an attack.

The apprentice nearest Fenris exchanged a look with Danerius. When the magister nodded, the apprentice lightly traced a finger over Fenris' bracelet. Energy sparked along its surface and the silver pieces came apart.

Fenris stared at his bare wrists as the silver tumbled harmlessly to the ground. For a moment he tried to process what was happening, why he was being set loose, but a voice cut through his thoughts.

"Fenris, to me," Danerius commanded.

Of course. How could he defend his master if his hands were bound?

Obediently, Fenris followed Danerius as the magister climbed into the safety of his painted wagon and closed the wooden door behind him.

"Help me with these, my pet," Danerius said, this time more softly. Blood was already beginning to soak through the magister's robes, but the arrows were not too deep. Fenris reached out, lyrium bursting to life along his markings, and gingerly took the first arrowhead in his fingers.

Danerius hissed in pain, but did not flinch again while Fenris carefully worked the arrow out of Danerius's flesh. It was slow work, trying to minimize the tissue damage, but Fenris had a steady hand and in less than a half hour both arrows had been removed. As soon as they were out, light swirled around Danerius and the wounds closed.

"Be a good wolf and stand guard until the coast is clear," the magister said, dismissing Fenris with a wave of his hand.

Fenris nodded and took his leave of the wagon. As he stepped down the stairs, a guard approached him and held out a greatsword hilt first.

Fenris accepted the weapon and sheathed it. It felt good to be armed again.

After the first couple of hours passed without further incident, things began to calm down. The guards had scouted the area around the temporary encampment, but they found nothing and seemed content to write off the attack as a Dalish warning. They would be moving away from Dalish frequented areas soon, so hopefully that would be the end of any trouble with the wild elves.

Apprentice mages came and went from Danerius' wagon throughout the day, but the magister himself stayed securely inside.

That night Fenris continued to stand watch outside Danerius' wagon. The magister wanted to keep his most powerful sword between himself and any threat that might linger. That meant Fenris would be back to old habits, sleeping on his feet.

"Don't be alarmed," a soft voice came from beneath Danerius' wagon. Fenris snapped open his eyes. When had he closed them? His hand instinctively went to the hilt of his blade, but otherwise he did not move.

"I don't mean you any harm," the voice said. It was a woman's voice, an elf. It sounded vaguely familiar, but it was too soft to make out clearly. Even his elven ears strained to hear her. "How many here are slaves?"

"None," Fenris replied. He had been a slave once, but he was a free elf now. A free elf in service of a powerful magister, whom he intended to keep safe.

The voice seemed to be coming from behind the wagon wheel where the speaker could not easily be reached in one motion. He needed to get around to the side a bit before he could strike, but doing so now would only spook the intruder. He needed to either draw her out or gain some measure of trust, both of which meant keeping her talking.

"Are you alone?" he asked. He did not expect an answer, but if this elf did know him, then perhaps she would give him one.

"Unfortunately, yes," the voice answered. A lone assassin then, Fenris concluded. One that he probably knew, who might go out of her way to avoid harming him. That was good. They could use that.

"Are any of the others mages as well?" the assassin asked in turn.

"The attendants are apprentice mages. The guards are not, though they are all willing servants," Fenris answered. This time only silence followed, and when he knelt to peer under the wagon, the ground there was empty. This had been a message, of course: the assassin was still here and she could come at them any time she wished.

Fenris frowned and stood up. He needed to report this to Danerius.

For five days Fenris guarded the door of Danerius' wagon. They had resumed their northward march, and a sense of urgency was building in the ranks. The assassin had not made another direct appearance, but people had begun to go missing. Scout too far ahead or trail too far behind and you were not likely to be seen again.

Danerius was convinced it was the pirate woman from Kirkwall. She alone had seemed upset when Fenris had been retrieved, and a raid on a caravan seemed in character for a pirate. The voice hadn’t sounded like Isabella, but then, she may have been trying to avoid recognition as well.

If it was her, then she would most likely be alone, as he had informed Danerius. Isabella had had no crew for some time. A tightening of their security, keeping guards in groups of three and the apprentice mages near the wagon, should be enough to put a damper on the pirate’s little game.

It should have been that simple, but unrest was still growing. Word had spread among the apprentices that Danerius was in trouble. The arrows he had taken must have been poisoned, and no magic would touch the slowly spreading malaise. Despite their high levels of learning, none of the mages could even identify the poison that had been used. Danerius' only hope now was to reach Tevinter and see if any of his connections knew more. Or failing that, if an answer could be found in the archives there.

The mages had even tried using blood magic to purge the poison from Danerius, but after two guards were killed to no effect they had abandoned the idea. Only one thing seemed to do any good. The progression of the poison could be slowed by slowing Danerius' blood itself. Now he remained in a self-inflicted half-conscious state with an apprentice attending him at all hours.

As for Fenris, when he did sleep it was securely inside the wagon with his back pressing the door closed, but he did not sleep much. Most of his time was spent standing at attention outside the wagon door, ready and waiting for the assassin to come to him. He would not let her get away if she showed herself again, and she must have known it. She did not come.

After the seventh day, the assassin's whittling down of their numbers became more aggressive, until even walking beside the wagon was not safe. A single arrow, well placed, dropped another apprentice. The assassin did not show her face.

It drove the remaining guards near mad, and in their desperation they foolishly tried one last flush of the surrounding woods. There were not enough of them remaining and while the trees at the roadside were relatively thin, the Planascene was a thick forest. If they entered the shadowy brush they would surely be separated, but they would not listen to Fenris. They never returned.

It was the twelfth day when Danerius' final apprentice was slain driving the horses. With no one left to navigate or tend the the horses -Fenris was ill equipped for either task- they stopped moving northward.  
It was in the pre-dawn gloom of the thirteenth day when the assassin finally showed her face, a slim elven shape parting from the darkness. It had not been Isabella afterall.

"It is over, Danerius!" she called past Fenris. She did not come close enough for him to strike, but Fenris drew his sword nonetheless and took a few steps towards her. He had not had proper rest in far too many days and was more tired than he cared to admit, but he was still more than ready to put up a fight.

"I would not say it is done just yet," Danerius' muffled voice replied from inside the wagon. With no more apprentices to monitor him and the assassin here at last, he would not be able to keep his blood slowed. He would have to let the poison do its work at its own pace until Fenris could settle things again.

"The poison continues to eat you, and you have no lives left to steal," the assassin said. It was true, unfortunately. Danerius could not consume Fenris' life so long as the assassin threatened. Without his wolf he would be naked and exposed.

"Then let us be done with you, so that I might move on," Danerius replied casually. "Fenris?"  
At his name, Fenris leapt into motion. He brought his blade in a slashing arc at the assassin, but it met only empty air.

"You don't have to do this," the assassin whispered, her breath at his ear. He struck backwards with the pommel of his sword. There was enough force to shatter a breastbone, but the assassin flowed around the blow like a reed on the wind. She spun and opened up some distance between them.

Fenris touched his throat uneasily where her two fingers had brushed his skin. He hadn't even seen the motion, but the memory of the touch lingered in his flesh. It was a warning: she could have killed him if she had wanted to. She had not, and that was a mistake Fenris would make her regret. He would not be so shy about finishing the deed.

Fenris leapt forward again. The assassin was drawing him away from the wagon now, entering the trees that lined the roadside. He couldn’t let himself be drawn into the thicker trees where his greatsword would be useless, but at the same time, he was thankful for any distance he could put between the assassin and his master.

He changed to faster motions, committing less to each attack so that he could alter his momentum more easily. Once, twice, three more times his blade found empty air as the sinuous assassin danced circles around it. He silently cursed the fatigue he had tried to ignore.

If the battle continued at this pace he would only wear himself out further. He knew what he needed to do.  
Fenris willed forth the pain that sparked through his lyrium, and then he feinted right with his blade. But this time as the assassin spun around his weapon, his left hand was waiting.

Her breath caught, as it always did when Fenris plunged his hand into someone's chest. He lifted her off the ground; the ethereal blue wisps that issued from his lyrium wafted upwards to caress a face that tickled Fenris' memory. She was surprised, but with no sign of the fear or panic that Fenris was used to in his foes.

She did not claw at the arm that held her aloft. Instead, she put away her daggers with the care of someone leaving on a long journey. There was relief on her face before she closed her eyes, embracing death.  
Fenris closed his fingers around that beating lump of flesh. For all the trouble she had caused, he had wanted to see her suffer, wanted to see her desperate and pleading. But though her pulse quickened, it remained steady. Her heart did not flutter and falter. Being denied her misery brought a snarl to his lips.  
But as he began to squeeze, something snaked past his fingers, like a ribbon of ghost that froze his blood. Soon after another followed it, in time with the beating of her heart. It was as though her veins were living things, clawing at him.

Horrified, Fenris threw the assassin to the ground and clutched at his hand. Nothing looked out of the ordinary, but he could still feel the traces her veins had left. He could almost imagine them growing, slowly lacing up his arm as if to consume him.

"Finish her!" Danerius demanded. His voice was no longer muffled; he had left the safety of his wagon and was coming up behind Fenris. "I said finish her!"

It was like a veil had been torn from Fenris' eyes.

He gloried in the searing pain of the lyrium for one lingering moment. Its fire chased away the unnatural ice from his skin as he listened to Danerius approach. Then he spun on his heel and in one decisive motion he ripped the heart from Danerius' chest.

Just like that, it was over.

Staring at that pitiful flesh in his bloody hand, the reality of the past two weeks crashed over Fenris. He sank to his knees beside the corpse of the magister as a hundred questions reeled through his mind.  
Why had he given up so easily? Why had he defended Danerius, wanted to defend him?

But he already knew the answer. Blood magic. It had to be.

While under the effects of its compulsion, every action felt like your own. Only in looking back was it obvious that nothing could have been further from the truth. It made him wonder how many other times Danerius had done this. How many times had meek subservience been the result of blood magic rather than his own weakness? How many times had he cursed himself for actions that might not have been his own afterall? How could he even know? He’d never had a will of his own to contradict before; he’d just been a vessel for his master’s commands.

"That's an impressive trick you've got there," the assassin said, drawing Fenris out of his spiraling thoughts. She was lying in the dirt and rubbing her chest. "I think I would like to feel it again one day."

That was not what Fenris had expected to hear, and he dropped Danerius' heart. It made a pitiful "whump" as it hit the loose dirt.

“Are you insane?” Fenris muttered. The past two weeks would make a lot more sense if she were.

"I've been worrying about my Calling a lot more lately," the assassin explained, as if that somehow made things any clearer. But it did remind Fenris of where he knew her from. She was the Gray Warden he had met outside of Kirkwall all those years ago, the one who had offered to help him kill Danerius.

A pang of guilt stabbed at him. She had come here to do just that. In fact, she had done just that, and he had nearly killed her for it. 

"I think I've probably got seven years left at most," she went on matter-of-factly, either oblivious to or intentionally ignoring Fenris’s sudden anguish. "It comes faster for those of us who have actually fought darkspawn. But that's not what worries me. What bothers me is what I will do when the time comes."

"I thought all Wardens went to the Deep Roads to die in battle against Darkspawn," Fenris said, letting her draw him away from his guilt. There were many unknowns about the Gray Wardens, but he knew what a Calling was. Tevinter was no stranger to Gray Wardens, afterall. The Wardens had no qualms about blood magic, and the first blight had begun in Tevinter. The first Wardens had even been Tevinter soldiers.

"That is customary," the Warden agreed. "But when I was last in the Deep Roads... I saw things, learned things about the Darkspawn. A man may enter the Deep Roads, blade drawn, and have the certainty of death ahead of him. But a woman? Those they don't always kill."

Fenris detected a faint tremble in her voice.

"No one knows the whole story of where the original Darkspawn came from, but I know where new Darkspawn come from. And while my fellow Wardens assure me that our protections would prevent something like that from befalling a Gray Warden, I just can't shake the question. What if they're wrong?"

A shiver went up Fenris' spine. That was one Gray Warden secret he would have rather not known.

"I am not an easy one to kill," the Warden continued. "If I'm above ground when the madness comes for me, there's no telling the amount of damage I could do. And for all his playing at guild master of the Antivan Crows, Zevran taught me everything he knows. I don't think he could take me anymore.

"Its comforting, though," she went on, "to think of having someone around who could kill me if they had to."

"You've risked your life for my freedom," Fenris said. "The least I can do is make sure yours ends while you still have your own."

"So quick to bind your new life to a promise?" the Warden asked.

"I..." Fenrs was not sure where he would go from here, or what he would do. He was free, yes. Truly free, for the first time in his life. But he had no home to return to. Those he had counted as his friends had abandoned him when he needed them most.

"Don't take that the wrong way," the Warden added. "I could use your sword arm."

"For the Crows?" Fenris wondered aloud. Repaying his debt to this elf seemed as good a place to start his new life as any, but he had no desire to give away his freedom to a guild of assassins. Thankfully, the Warden shook her head.

"I found Antiva just wasn't to my liking," she replied. "So when some strange communications between Kirkwall and Tevinter came to the Crows' attention, I took it as an opportunity to leave in a more permanent fashion."

“You were waiting for it!” Fenris was surprised, but certain he had hit the mark. It had been a long time since they had parted ways, a year even. Why did she even care?

“With bait like that, I knew the trap would close sooner or later.” The Warden didn’t try to deny it. “I wanted to see what would happen when it did.”

"Now that you’ve seen it go down, what do you intend to do?" Fenris asked.

"I must say, I'm not good at anything but killing," she answered. "But, there are plenty of slavers along these coasts that need killing."

Fenris let himself fall back into the dirt. It felt good to lie down, and he stared up at the stars poking through the leaves above. They were fading and would soon make way for the dawn.

"I can think of worse things to do with my freedom than hunting slavers with a beautiful woman," he said, drifting into the arms of a much overdue sleep.


End file.
